Night of the Fourth
by BandGeek58407
Summary: When the election results are on the brink of being announced, tensions run high and chaos is the norm at the Gates manor. Oneshot.


**I couldn't resist. **

**Disclaimer: National Treasure sure as heckle-shmeckle isn't mine. And neither is the election. Heck, I missed voting by two and a half months. NGH. Anyway.**

**_Night of the Fourth_**

It was a quiet, relatively still evening, though occasionally a few stray raindrops left on the violent orange foliage fell with a splat to the manor's roof. Somewhere, probably upstairs, a television was emitting the monotonous drone of a news station; in the kitchen below, said droning only resembled the teacher from _Peanuts_.

After a moment, a pair of high-heeled shoes was heard clicking down the stairs. "Is that you, Abigail?" Ben called from his seat at the kitchen table, his curious expression fading once he saw her frustrated frown. "So how are the election results playing out?" Gripping his mug of hot chocolate a tad tighter, he made sure to tread carefully, lest he risk sounding boastful or some other thing that would be unfavorable to his girlfriend at that point.

"I'll tell you how they are," she muttered harshly as she fell into the chair beside him. "They're _ridiculous_." The last word came out as a menacing whisper, and Ben had to fight the instinct to lean away. "Can you believe the nerve of these channels? They're already saying that Oklahoma's already red!"

"You know Abigail," Patrick chimed in, waltzing by the counter to grab a granola bar. "They can be pretty sure when ninety-seven percent of the votes have been reported." On his face was a not-so-inconspicuous grin, and he raised his eyebrows just enough to send her frown to extreme levels of irritation.

"I don't want to talk to you right now," she said blatantly. "Just watch, just you watch, Patrick!" The older man kept his silly smile and just about skipped back to one of the other rooms where a different news station was on. As soon as he left, Abigail's attention zoomed back to Ben. "I mean, do they really have to speculate? Can't they just let everybody find out through the newspapers in the morning?"

Again Ben had to carefully select his words, but after the past few months, the practice had almost become a subconscious one. "Well…some people like to follow it as it unfolds. It's like…" He paused to recall the comparison he had stashed in his head before her piercing gaze became too distracting. "It's like a sporting event, almost."

As she rolled her eyes, an excited, zealous cry of "WOOHOO!" erupted from where Patrick had gone. Soon he was back in the doorway. "South Carolina, Abigail!" he shouted with glee, giving her a thumbs up. Her glare magnified, and before anybody knew what was coming, an orange from the fruit bowl before them was flying speedily towards Patrick's face.

"Go away!"

He ducked, and the citrus sphere cascaded into the depths of the living room and landed with a crash.

"That was _your_ lamp, by the way," he said hastily, making his way back to the sofa.

Cursing to herself in German, Abigail rose and shuffled over to the doorway; at the last second, she paused. "Ben…who did you vote for, again?" For once her demeanor wasn't nearly as tense. Actually, it was more normal, but Ben didn't let down his guard.

"Oh…well…" He shrugged. "The person I wanted to be president."

"Which was…?"

He frowned in false contemplation. "A person."

"Which person?"

"The person whose name I marked on my ballot."

"What was his name, Ben?" Abigail's eyebrow slowly began to twitch ever so slightly.

"Something," he replied simply and took a gulp of his steaming beverage, one large enough to conceal his nose and enough of his eyes for her to sigh and walk away. All that was discernible under her breath were multiple mutterings of "ridiculous." He sat there in silence for a long while, always at the ready should a scuffle arise between the two in the living room. It was very likely, after all: that lamp-shattering orange was not the first shot to be fired that night.

Once the lamp's pieces had been meticulously collected, Ben decided that it would be a much better idea to place himself between his feuding family members. Abigail and Patrick were situated on extreme opposite ends of the beige sofa, practically crawling over the armrest as if the three seat cushions between them weren't enough. Intensely they studied the percentages scrolling at the bottom of the screen and from time to time one made a derisive comment towards the other when a particular statistic was in their favor. Being smack-dab in the center of it all was no easy task for even Ben to endure.

"So!" he said cheerfully at about ten forty-five. His jocularity was met with vehement scowls, but they did nothing to erase his awkward grin. "Has anybody heard from Riley?" At once Abigail and Patrick seemed to return to their normal selves, looking with confusion between their other two companions.

"No…" Abigail said, finger on her temple. "Actually, I haven't. At all."

"I saw him early this morning," Patrick added. "_Really_ early. He said he was going to vote before the crowds hit."

"If he's already voted, then where would he be?" Ben wondered aloud. The three sat back and tried to think, and for a moment the politics being broadcasted were forgotten.

All of a sudden, the front door slammed open, ricocheting loudly against the old walls. Boisterous footsteps clomped about the hallways until they found their way to where they were sitting. In less than three seconds Riley was standing before them, a broad grin spread across his face. And he just stared, eyes wild with excitement.

"Uh…hi?" Abigail ventured.

Still he stared, and he was even starting to breath little heavy.

"You back from the polls, Riley?" she tried again.

"It's all OVER!" he said abruptly, reaching his arms toward the ceiling. "It's over, it's over, it's over, over, over!" he sang. He began to bounce in a tiny circle.

This time around, all the others could do was stare, but Riley didn't take any notice.

"It's all over!" he repeated, and he brought one of his hands close to his face and counted off his fingers almost obsessively. "No more ads, no more televised debates, no more yard signs, no more heated arguments, no more complete and total BS!" His hands jerked back down and came into a brief clap. "It's _sooo_ amazing!"

Before anyone dared say anything, Ben, Abigail and Patrick exchanged curious, flabbergasted, and worried looks. "So, Riley," Abigail said eventually. "Who'd you vote for?"

"I hated all of them." Subtly his right eye twitched.

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Yes it does."

"No—it doesn't."

"I hated all of them. So I wrote in a candidate." Slowly he rocked back and forth on his heels while they waited for him to reveal the name. Ideas were already popping up in their heads like mushrooms after a rainstorm. After about five seconds, all three of them had assumed Stephen Colbert was the obvious choice.

"I voted for Barack McNader," Riley stated proudly. "And his vice presidential nominee, Hillary Palibiden the Plumber."

Silence.

"They really stand for what it _means_ to be an American," he elaborated to his friends, all featuring expressions with indeterminable emotions. Abigail's was the closest to something familiar—it had the ring of "Dear God…"

"Well…now that it's finally _over_"—the techie's eyes scrunched up neurotically—"I'm going to go to bed and wake up a very happy person!" And with a speed that none of those present had ever seen out of Riley—even during the strenuous foot pursuits in their adventures—he sprinted all the way up the stairs. And then he sped all the way back down, arriving before their still-shocked faces out of breath.

"You know what?" He paused to take some deep breaths, and then he pointed straight at Ben. "I think we've got something."

"Yes, yes we do," Ben replied quickly, wishing to avoid whatever situation was about to unfold. "We've got the Templar Treasure and Cibola. It's very grand."

"_No_, not that, silly!" Riley groaned. "I mean we've got _something_." His smile inching back onto his face twitch by twitch, he let out a sly giggle. "Ben Gates in 2012! Ben Gates in 2012! We'll take the electoral map by STORM! A THUNDERSTORM! WITH LOTS OF TEMPLAR-SHAPED HAIL!" Laughing maniacally, he returned to his bedroom as a dark-brown blur.

No one said a word; instead, they redirected their attention to the television screen.

"This sure is an interesting blurb," the anchor was saying. "Many Starbucks chains across the country for some time earlier today were offering free drinks to voters…"

And for the first time in the past twenty-one months, things made sense.

XXX

**That was certainly more fun to write than it was to experience. Living in a swing state sucks. And that bit about Starbucks is true, by the way. **

**Reviewing would be really awesome! **


End file.
